


Not Too Late

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, One Shot, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, So it's a bit angsty but not too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Well,’ Sherlock says, ‘you miss a lot of things, John. A lot of things indeed.’</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss), thank you so much for betaing this fic!

John is sitting in his armchair, glancing through the pages of today’s newspaper without really reading it, holding a mug of tea in his right hand and taking a sip out of it once in a while. He is lingering deep in his own thoughts, quite relaxed and completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock is staring at him.  
  
Well, John has never been one to make good observations and sharp deductions, but this is a bit of an underachievement even for him.  
  
Sherlock exhales deeply and takes a bite from the toast John made him and then places it back onto the plate. Really, why are people in general so keen on breakfasts?  
  
‘You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it,’ John says without looking at him.  
  
Sherlock stares at the toast and then at John. Perhaps John _does_ know a bit of what is happening in front of his eyes, then, but clearly not everything. That is quite good, of course, considering the circumstances.  
  
Actually, this is quite an exception nowadays, to be able to sit in the living room in Baker Street and watch John eating breakfast. Now that John is living with Mary, _married_ to her – and how did _that_ happen, and why didn’t he do anything to stop it? - John usually eats his breakfast with Mary, and Mary is the one who gets to stare at John for more than twenty-five minutes without John even noticing. (Obviously Mary is stares at John, why wouldn’t she when she has the opportunity? Staring at John is probably the best thing anyone can do in the morning, other than solving a well-planned murder, of course.)  
  
A few years ago this was what they did all the time, except that back then Sherlock wasn’t so keen on staring at John. Or was he? Perhaps he just didn’t realise it. He has been a bit slow putting all the pieces together in this particular case, it’s no wonder that Mycroft got in a few sharp remarks before he finally realised it himself. But John is _unreasonably_ slow. It’s unbearable, but, well, it probably makes it possible for Sherlock to sit here, watching John, who spent the whole evening with him solving a crime (that unfortunately turned out to be completely boring) and then deciding it was too late to go back to his own place.               
  
John’s room is still untouched, of course. Sherlock didn’t want to get a new roommate. He couldn’t bear anyone other than John. When John decides to sleep at 221 B, his old room’s always waiting for him.  
  
And when he isn’t there, sometimes Sherlock is too occupied with other, more important things, to remember that John isn’t actually living there anymore, and so he walks around the flat absently thinking that John is still in his room, perhaps reading a particularly interesting book. (Or maybe he does it on purpose. Maybe he purposely lets himself think that John never left him. Such an embarrassing way to behave, John must never find that out.)  
  
‘Well,’ John says suddenly, putting the newspaper aside and watching Sherlock, ‘it’s almost ten o’clock. I should probably get going.’  
  
‘Lestrade would like a report, I suppose,’ Sherlock says.  
  
John stares at him, frowning just a little, but he doesn’t get it. There’s no need for John to stay simply to give Lestrade a report, of course not, and John _knows_ it, and still he doesn’t realise that Sherlock is just mumbling the first excuse that comes across his mind. How long has he been doing this? Not long, not before John’s wedding, or at least he doesn’t think so. But it’s been a year now, John has been married to Mary for _a year_.  
  
Surely John must realise one day.  
  
‘Okay,’ John says slowly. ‘I don’t have work today, so it’s fine. Let’s go see Lestrade. Let me just call Mary first, to see how she and Emily are.’  
  
John rises to his feet and goes to kitchen, Sherlock doesn’t really know why, because he see and hear John perfectly well anyway, so it clearly isn’t about privacy. But he doesn’t argue. He’s just happy to keep John a few hours more.  
  
Pathetic, that’s what it is.  
  
He really should put an end to this somehow. Mycroft reminds him of that every time they meet, though he usually does it without words, thank God.  
  
And yes, he knows he is doing this ‘being pathetic’ thing remarkably well for someone who isn’t at his best in social relations. John is a married man with a baby girl who is four months old. John’s wife is a highly intelligent ex-assassin who has genuine affection for John and knows what to do with it. There’s no reason why John shouldn’t be happy as he is. And, apparently, he _is_ happy. He doesn’t even realise that his best friend has been staring at him intently for over a year. He doesn’t need to, because that knowledge wouldn’t do him any good (and of course, he’s only slightly more intelligent than an average person, which is probably part of his charm, to be honest).  
  
Sherlock might have had a chance at one point. He’s not sure. He probably never will be. And now his chance has definitely passed.  
  
‘I love you, too,’ John says, to his daughter, not to Mary, which is much more bearable, although Sherlock is surprisingly good at bearing the alternative, too. He has had some practise.  
  
Sometimes Mary throws him a glance that shows she’s sorry, in a way. Usually Sherlock just does his best trying to ignore their kisses, should he happen to be there to witness them. John probably thinks Sherlock simply feels awkward around open affection, which of course is true. He does. But that’s not the whole story in this case, of course it isn’t. How can it be that John still doesn’t get it?  
  
‘They’re going for a walk,’ John says, setting the phone aside. There’s still a smile on his face that’s not meant for Sherlock. When did he began having thoughts like that? Mycroft would laugh. ‘Mary says she’s fine with me staying here a bit longer. I wouldn’t really know if she was faking if, of course… but she genuinely seems fine with me hanging around with you all the time.’  
  
Sherlock feels like remarking on _all the time_ , because clearly it’s more like approximately one and a half hours a day, which is definitely a completely different thing altogether. But he doesn’t say it aloud. It’s not the point. Even he gets it.  
  
‘So, Lestrade, then?’ John asks, already looking for his coat.  
  
‘Ah, it can wait,’ Sherlock says. ‘I’ll do it over the phone later. Let’s play chess.’  
  
John opens his mouth, then gives him a short laugh and sits back down in the armchair.  
  
Sherlock is being so _obvious,_ he really is.  
  
‘Sherlock – ‘  
  
‘Shut up,’ he says.  
  
  
**  
  
‘It must be unbearable.’  
  
‘Oh, for goodness – ‘ Sherlock grunts, _really,_ but well, he didn’t see that one coming. ‘Mycroft, would you please get yourself a hobby and stop following me around.’  
  
‘I have hobbies,’ his brother says in a pleasant tone, ‘and almost all of them are far more interesting than following you around. But I was in the neighbourhood and decided to say hello to my little brother, who is – _again,_ I might add – stalking his best friend.’  
  
A cigarette. Mycroft talking about Sherlock’s private life always makes him crave a cigarette. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have any.  
  
‘Cigarette?’ Mycroft asks, offering one.  
  
‘No, thank you,’ Sherlock says with as much determination in his voice as possible. ‘I don’t smoke.’  
  
‘Also,’ Mycroft says, ‘you don’t stalk John Watson.’  
  
‘No. I happened to be in the area,’ Sherlock says, still staring at John, who is smiling at Emily and resting his hand around Mary’s waist. Mary knows he’s there, of course. John doesn’t. _Of course_.  
  
‘I had greater faith in John Watson on this particular issue,’ Mycroft says, thoughtfully. ‘I’m somewhat surprised he hasn’t figured it out, but, perhaps it’s because everyone kept telling him so for so long. He must have struggled hard to deny it.’  
  
‘No. He’s just an idiot.’  
  
Mycroft shrugs, although he might be right and he knows it. ‘So, this is how you are showing your affection nowadays, then? Watching them as they play the happy couple?’  
  
‘They _are_ a happy couple.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Mycroft says slowly, ‘must be unbearable, as I said.’  
  
Sherlock doesn’t answer. He wouldn’t really know, would he? How could he measure it? He is well capable of living like this, having John for himself – in one way, if not in another – for an hour and a half a day, give or take. The stress of it probably won’t cause him any life-threatening diseases. He won’t commit suicide. So, strictly speaking, he wouldn’t say it was _unbearable.  
  
_ But he most definitely doesn’t feel as good in general as he did a few years ago, when he had John all for himself. There’s this tight feeling in his chest when he remembers that John is mostly Mary’s nowadays, and that’s quite often, virtually seventy-two percent of his waking hours. Perhaps that’s what people mean when they say _unbearable_?  
  
‘There’s one question that’s begging to be answered,’ Mycroft suddenly says, and Sherlock is alarmed right away, because Mycroft’s voice is just a bit softer and more pleasant and that means _danger._ ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ask it aloud but, since you’ve lowered yourself to a state where you can happily spy on John and Mary and little Emily, I may as well do so.’  
  
‘Shoot away,’ Sherlock says, because he would, anyway.  
  
‘Would you have gone through with it?’ Mycroft says, watching him closely. He doesn’t have a chance at lying and getting away with it, not like this, not with Mycroft staring at him this close. In phone, maybe. Now, definitely not.  
  
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, mainly to win some time (and also to make Mycroft a bit more uncomfortable asking it).  
  
‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft says with his most irritating tone, ‘you know perfectly well what I mean, but since you ask: Had John Watson been willing, would you have committed yourself to a relationship with him? A real one? A sexual one? That’s not usual behaviour for you, Sherlock.’  
  
‘And how would you know?’  
  
Mycroft throws a glance at him. Well, he _would,_ wouldn’t he? He probably has a file somewhere in his office.  
  
‘Since you seem to be so interested in my sex life – ‘ the phrase feels rather odd in his mouth but seeing a sneer on Mycroft’s face is worth the trouble, ‘ – you surely know that I’m well capable of – ‘  
  
This time Mycroft cuts him short. ‘Yes, yes.’ He’s genuinely disturbed. The discussion is clearly improving. ‘I know. But really, with _John Watson_ , with someone you know and – ‘  
  
‘What’s the difference?’ Sherlock says, not wanting to hear what Mycroft was going to say next. ‘I’m sure it works pretty much the same as with a stranger.’  
  
‘Oh, Sherlock,’ Mycroft says, smiling, which is always a bad thing, ‘but it doesn’t, not really. There are _emotions_ , you see. All the areas of human life that you know the least about combined into one. Would you have managed it?’  
  
John has Emily on his lap. Mary is standing next to them. She’s facing Sherlock, she probably sees him right now. John and Emily are watching ducks in the pond nearby. Mary says something to them and at the same time watches her husband’s best friend moaning over him in the distance.  
  
‘Well,’ Sherlock says, turning around, ‘that we will never know.’  
  
**  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says, extremely uncomfortable.  
  
They are sitting in the living room. Sherlock almost sighs out aloud. So far this has been a thoroughly nice moment, one of those when he can almost forget about the fact that John is, in fact, married with a child and living a completely different life elsewhere. He hasn’t been feeling like he’s stealing John from his real life, or like he’s tricking John into some kind of a secret fantasy in which the two of them live in Baker Street happily ever after and do nothing but solve interesting cases all day long.  
  
He looks at John. John really _is_ nervous, he’s hardly able to sit still. This is going to be awkward.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says again, clearly not wanting to get to the point, ‘there’s this thing... I feel really odd even bringing it up, but it was Mary’s idea, really, the whole thing would never have crossed my mind otherwise, but well, anyway… it’s quite private. I’m sorry.’  
  
Sherlock frowns. ‘Surely you two aren’t having problems? Is she committing crimes again?’  
  
‘No,’ John says, fast, ‘no, nothing like that. Everything is fine. Well, of course neither of us gets enough sleep, but that’s just what it’s like when… well, you know. With the baby. No, it’s not that. Mary’s not committing crimes – ‘ John pauses for a second, ‘ – or at least I’m fairly sure she’s not, but how would I know? Of course, she _promised_ she wouldn’t lie to me anymore – ‘  
  
‘I’m sure she’s obeying the law just fine,’ Sherlock says before John gets too far off the point. Whatever it was that John wants to talk about must be better than analysing their marriage. ‘She wouldn’t lie to you again.’ Well, she might if she had to. Both of them know that. There’s no point saying it aloud.  
  
‘Yes’, John says, ‘right, I might as well go on then, I think. Mary is… we both are… well, Mary is a little worried about you, you know – ‘  
  
‘I really don’t,’ Sherlock says, even though he has a hunch, and not a pleasant one. But Mary wouldn’t have told John. Why would she? There’s no point. John is with her and she… loves John. She wouldn’t want John to feel awkward around his best friend.  
  
There’s a deep frown on John’s face. ‘This is so hard. We never talk about this kind of stuff, but Sherlock, surely you… I mean, we are worried that you might be lonely. Since you’ve always lived alone.’  
  
Ah. That’s it, then. Sherlock might point out that he used to live with _John_ for a while, but it probably wouldn’t be the best move.  
  
‘So, Mary wants me to talk with you about… well, about the fact that if you wanted to talk to me about… these kind of things, you could. It would be fine. It might be good to talk about them, sometimes, you know, and I’m your best friend.’  
  
John is struggling to make sense. It’s somehow adorable (and that surely isn’t something Sherlock should be thinking about right now).  
  
‘John,’ he says slowly, ‘I’m fine.’  
  
John stares at him. ‘Are you? Really? You must… you must miss having someone once in a while.’  
  
_Yes_ , Sherlock might answer, _I miss you._ But it won’t do to say things like that, of course, so he doesn’t say anything.  
  
‘You surely have… _impulses_ ,’ John says, thoroughly awkward but weirdly determined all the same, ‘like anyone else would. Aren’t you seeing anyone? Have you _ever?_ You had Janine for a few weeks, and surely you… but it’s been _ages_ , Sherlock, how could you… I mean… I suppose you don’t have a girlfriend?’  
  
The question is a bit ridiculous, of course. John would know if he had one. And, besides…  
  
‘Not really my area,’ Sherlock says, ‘as I once told you.’  
  
‘Yes, yes,’ John says, ‘when we were at Angelo’s the first time and – ‘  
  
Then he pauses.  
  
Ah.  
  
So, he _really_ hasn’t got it, not even the easy part of it all.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says, straightening up and swallowing, all his experience as a soldier working in his favour now as he prepares himself to ask something he really doesn’t want to.  
  
‘Yes?’ Sherlock asks. This should have come up ages ago. Surely it’s about time.  
  
‘So, you are – ‘  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
‘You are gay.’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
‘You _really_ are gay,’ John says.  
  
‘Well,’ Sherlock says (perhaps John just needs to hear it repeated once again for some reason), ‘yes. Are you surprised?’  
  
John frowns. ‘Well. Not terribly so. But… it just never crossed my mind to wonder about – ‘  
  
Sherlock sighs. It’s just a bit too much. He’s been pining for John for over a year now, maybe much longer than that. And it _never crossed_ John’s mind to wonder if he preferred men? Oh, dear, John might be terribly uncomfortable already but he’s not going to get out of this so easily.  
  
‘Yes, it did.’  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Yes, it crossed your mind,’ Sherlock says, ‘several times.’  
  
John clears his throat. ‘Ah. Well. Perhaps. Yes. So, you definitely are – ‘  
  
‘Yes, I am.’  
  
‘And you have been… with…’  
  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock says and then pauses, because somehow it doesn’t seem like a completely truthful answer, even though technically it is. ‘Well. Yes, I have. But it’s been a while.’  
  
John is staring at him. ‘Like – ‘  
  
‘Like,’ Sherlock says, _what the hell_ , since John is asking he might as well be honest, he surely is allowed to tell John _this_ , ‘five years. Or, to be precise, five years seventeen days and – ‘  
  
‘Okay. Right. Stop right there,’ John says. He’s opening and closing his mind like a goldfish, and Sherlock can’t help but remember the thing Mycroft once said about that particular species. ‘Five years?’  
  
Oh. John is surprised that he can cope without sex for that long – or at least without sex with another human being.  
  
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I don’t tend to get interested. People in general are quite boring.’  
  
John looks like he doesn’t understand at all. ‘But surely – ‘  
  
‘I can very well manage it on my own, if I have to,’ Sherlock says, because it seems like John is aiming in that direction. Surely this wasn’t what Mary had in mind when she asked John to have a talk with him?  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says, now leaning back in his armchair. His expression has changed, he’s not that uncomfortable anymore, more like… a bit sad, perhaps, but why?  
  
There’s also the remarkable question of how Sherlock himself is feeling right now. He doesn’t want to study that just yet. He will just get through this conversation and then, when John has gone back to Mary, he will try to evaluate whether a conversation like this one is going to change anything for better or (perhaps more probable) for worse.  
  
‘I don’t understand how we were able to _live together_ without having this conversation.’ John’s voice is mainly tired, something else, too, but Sherlock can’t quite put his finger on it yet. ‘I mean… It _did_ cross my mind many times. I went on dates sometimes. You never did. I wondered if you really weren’t interested at all, and of course there was that comment about girlfriends not being your area, but... then there was Irene Adler, and…’  
  
‘I didn’t fancy her,’ Sherlock says, because clearly it must be said.  
  
John doesn’t believe him. ‘Really? Well, that makes sense if you are… well, gay, but still, it really seemed like you did.’  
  
‘She merely played the game very well.’  
  
John rubs his nose. ‘Yeah… of course. Sorry. I think I misunderstood your interest in her. I… I’m sorry. I really should have known that about you given how long we have been friends. I thought I knew you better than anyone.’  
  
‘You do.’  
  
‘But I don’t, surely I don’t if I miss something like that.’  
  
‘Well,’ Sherlock says, ‘you miss a lot of things, John. A lot of things indeed.’  
  
**  
  
‘I’m so happy you two talked about it,’ Mary says conversationally as she passes Sherlock on her way to the kitchen.  
  
‘Excuse me?’ Sherlock frowns. Mary opens the fridge. If it’s food she’s looking for, she won’t find it. She doesn’t look surprised when she turns around to face him again, at any rate.  
  
‘About relationships,’ Mary says, ‘girlfriends, boyfriends. John just doesn’t get things sometimes. You should have told him you’re gay ages ago, preferably slowly and emphasising each word.’  
  
Sherlock can’t do anything but stare at her. John has gone upstairs to look for a book that he thought he left here and that he now wants to read, and Mary is standing in the kitchen of 221 B looking straight at Sherlock and _knowing_ and saying things like that.  
  
Why doesn’t Mary mind? Or does she, just doing a marvelous job hiding it? That’s not impossible, but… why put on the show? Why would she make John have conversations like the one a week ago with Sherlock if she really did mind?  
  
‘Mary.’  
  
Mary sits down in John’s chair. ‘Sherlock.’  
  
Sherlock frowns. Mary stares back at him. He can see why John likes her. He might as well, if he wasn’t… well. _If he wasn’t so deeply obsessed with John_ is probably the most accurate way to say it. Being gay is secondary compared to that.  
  
And Mary knows both.  
  
‘I don’t know,’ Mary says finally, her voice more quiet now, but John is still stumbling around upstairs, he won’t hear them. ‘I don’t really know why I made him talk about it with you. It just seems... a bit wrong that he doesn’t know. At all. It’s a thing that might change everything, you know.’  
  
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Sherlock says.  
  
‘We don’t really know that,’ says Mary. She’s looking genuinely sad now, but well, they have a four-month-old daughter together, it’s a sad thing that she’s saying, even though it’s not true.  
  
‘Yes, we do,’ Sherlock says. ‘He would pick you.’  
  
Mary looks at him. ‘How would you know? He never got to make that decision, not really. He hasn’t even figured out yet that there is a decision to be made.’  
  
‘But there really isn’t.’  
  
‘I love him,’ Mary says, ‘I really do, but sometimes it feels wrong that he never had a chance to choose, just because he _doesn’t get it._ ’  
  
Sherlock stares at her. John has found a book. In four seconds he will be coming downstairs.  
  
‘I’ll never tell him,’ he says.  
  
Mary nods. ‘I know,’ she says, and then, louder, turning her head to face John, ‘did you find it, honey? I think it might be time to go home. Em is playing with something that I think was once attached to a human body.’  
  
Sherlock breaks his gaze away from Mary to look at the little girl, little Emily Watson, who definitely is playing with something that would make almost any new parents of a small child scream with terror.  
  
John sneers but breaks into a laugh. ‘Yes. It definitely is time to go home. And yes, I found it, although I have a weird feeling that my things have been moved around.’  
  
Sherlock shrugs. ‘Not possible. I’m not the least interested in your things.’  
  
John rolls his eyes. Mary is watching Sherlock again, and he thinks his brain is going to burst with all this data that he can’t make sense of. And Emily, little girl who thinks the carpal bone is a toy and who has half of John’s DNA inside her, what a wonderful and frightening thought, is looking at her daddy and holding both of her arms high for John to pick her up from the floor and hold her. John might have been surprised and even frightened about becoming a father, but he’s so happy holding her. It’s unbearable. Mycroft was right, _dear Lord,_ that’s always a disappointment, and Mary is still throwing glances at Sherlock. She can’t be serious. She really can’t. There’s no question about whom John would choose, and there must not be, for everyone’s sake.  
  
Mycroft was right about something else, too. It would be a completely new thing for Sherlock to involve himself in a relationship with emotions and such, and evidence doesn’t really support the deduction that he might succeed with it. He hasn’t been doing too well being John’s friend. He faked his own death and let John mourn him for two years, after all. Mary might be a professional killer but well, that just makes her John’s type. And the life he can have with her… the life he _has_ with her is good. There’s the small girl that’s hugging John’s neck so tightly that he can barely breathe. And, of course, he can always visit Baker Street and sit on his armchair for a few hours and then go back to his family.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says, loudly. He has probably said it a few times. ‘We are going now. Emily, say good-bye to Sherlock.’  
  
Emily is a bit too young yet to do that properly. Sherlock doesn’t mind.  
  
‘Bye,’ he says anyway in reply.  
  
John smiles at him. Mary smiles at him. And then they both are gone.  
  
**            
  
Would it have made a difference if he had figured it out sooner? After Baskerville and the hound, perhaps? John had been angry at him, really angry, and he had been thoroughly upset about it. He might have known what it meant. He might have known that John wasn’t just his only _friend._  
  
Surely it had all been there for a long time. Even at the swimming pool, when John had appeared with jacket full of explosives and Sherlock had felt a cold shard of fear go through him. Someone else would have known right away. Someone else would have told John everything back then, kissed him senseless in the taxi and at home afterwards. John might have disagreed, and probably punched Sherlock quite hard, but while Sherlock held his bleeding nose, John just might have come around.  
  
There was a chance John would have chosen him. _There was_. But he never realised how much he wanted that, not until he came back from being dead and John had already found Mary.  
  
He had messed everything up, he really had.  
  
‘Sherlock?’  
  
_Not now_ , he wants to shout. Why is John here _now,_ now that Sherlock can’t think straight, now that it’s all just going round and round in his mind and he can’t _fix_ it, it’s too messy, he should have said something a long time ago but he really _can’t_ , he’s incapable of dealing with emotions, he is, Mycroft knows it, Mycroft is always right in the end, the bastard. And now John is there, standing in the kitchen like he still belongs to Baker Street, to Sherlock, and they both know it’s nothing more than a sweet lie. What did Mary mean? Why would she say something like that? John will never have to choose.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says, slowly walking towards Sherlock but not sitting down, ‘I know you’re busy, I know there’s that new case and you’d rather concentrate on that, but there’s really something that I’m afraid I have to ask.’  
  
Sherlock inhales. What case? Oh, the umbrella that got stuck in the man’s heart. _That_ case. Quite interesting at first but, sadly, it seems it was only about revenge, committed without forethought. _Emotions_ , peculiar phenomenon indeed.  
  
Finally John sits down. His face is serious, his heart is racing a little, he is nervous but determined, he taps the armrests with both hands and shifts uncomfortably. Sherlock straightens up, lifts his chin to meet John’s gaze. He can take this. His mind is a mess but he can take this, whatever it is, probably something about the stuff he’s keeping in the fridge now that John doesn’t live here anymore. He will listen to John now and leave solving his own problems for later. _For John._  
  
‘So,’ John says calmly (voice of a soldier, not commanding, just doing a task that must be done even though it’s difficult), ‘I realise I should have known that you are gay. I should have. I _was_ here all the time, you know. But I didn’t. And now that it has come up, I have to ask even though it might be a mistake, I’m sorry, Sherlock, I just have to.’  
  
But he doesn’t. He closes his mouth and keeps staring at Sherlock with an intense look that seems to be saying, _Fix this, Sherlock, fix this for me._  
  
‘Well?’ Sherlock asks. It’s the best he can do.  
  
John swallows, then inhales deeply and, finally, opens his mouth. ‘Was it ever me?’  
  
Sherlock blinks. ‘What?’  
  
John is looking at him now, staring at him, gazing through him, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. Sherlock finds that his own heart is racing as well. His palms are sweaty. Breathing doesn’t come as easily as usual.  
  
‘Please,’ John says, his voice cracking. ‘Just answer.’  
  
‘Would you care to repeat the question,’ Sherlock asks, his own voice thin and, well, terrified. Shit. _Shit._  
  
‘Did you ever have any interest in me?’ John asks. ‘Did you ever fancy me?’  
  
‘John,’ Sherlock says, and it sounds like the whole year of frustration and, well, sadness, is poured into that one syllable.  
  
‘Just answer the question, Sherlock,’ John says, back to being soldier, commanding him.  
  
Sherlock inhales. ‘Yes.’  
  
John looks like he’s going to have a heart attack. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.  
  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock says. He couldn’t lie even if he wanted to. He’s not that good with talking about emotions, he usually can’t do it right even when he tells the truth. And there’s no reason to lie anymore, is there? John knows. John _finally_ gets it. He can see it in his face, in his open mouth, in his frown and in his hands that are squeezing his own legs so tightly that he’s going to bruise. ‘Yes. Constantly.’  
  
John coughs. Sherlock didn’t mean to say that, not exactly. He _really_ isn’t good with this kind of stuff.  
  
‘Constantly?’ John says with a very, very thin voice. ‘Like… now?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock says.  
  
‘But – ‘ John starts, apparently having some trouble breathing, ‘ – why _the hell_ didn’t you tell me? _Sherlock?’_  
  
‘I – ‘ Sherlock says, frowning, ‘it was too late, I suppose. I didn’t know until it was too late. There was no point in telling, then. And I’m bad with this kind of stuff, you know I am.’  
  
‘Sure,’ John says, still trying to catch some air, ‘but I should have known, for this whole time, for _fuck’s sake_ , how is it even possible I didn’t notice that – ‘  
  
‘John,’ Sherlock points out, ‘you usually miss everything important.’  
  
John breaks into a laugh. ‘Really. _Really._ This isn’t a trick, is it? You are being serious?’  
  
Sherlock nods. Laughing seems a bit of a strange response from John. And there hasn’t been any violence yet. That’s odd, because it’s seems to be John’s usual way of dealing with surprises. ‘Yes. It’s not a trick. Aren’t you going to hit me?’  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘Hit me. In the face. That should be your reaction to what I just told you.’  
  
John looks at him, laughs a little, and then lets out a deep sigh, sinking into his armchair. He’s not squeezing his legs anymore, but he’s still anxious, Sherlock can see it.  
  
‘I’m not going to hit you,’ John says, ‘oh, _fuck,_ Sherlock, _what the hell_ was _that?_ Why didn’t I have a clue?’  
  
Sherlock swallows. ‘Well. You had, many of them, I suppose.’  
  
John exhales. ‘Yes. I suppose I had. Of course I had. I came to ask you, didn’t I? I must have had a clue. Otherwise I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself asking it.’  
  
‘I’m not entirely certain that you are the one who should be embarrassed right now.’  
  
‘Oh, _fuck off_ ,’ John says. ‘Don’t be. Really. Don’t. I should as I’m the idiot who didn’t get it. Of course you couldn’t _tell_ me, not with… with Mary and everything. And with me going on and on about… how I’m not… gay. I should have seen it. I should have.’  
  
‘It’s fine.’  
  
‘No, it… it really isn’t,’ John says. ‘It isn’t. It’s fucking complicated now. It would have been so much better to be in this position without a ring in my finger, for example. _Shit._ I _should have_ seen this one coming.’  
  
‘John, don’t – ‘  
  
‘I’m just an idiot. Really. All this _I’m not gay, I’m not gay,_ all this _nonsense,_ and I manage to get _married_ to a wonderful woman who resembles _you_ in more ways than you know before I even find out that you really _are_ gay and that you are… that you are…’  
  
‘Interested in you.’  
  
‘Thank you,’ John sighes, ‘ _before I find out that you are interested in me._ That’s fucked up, Sherlock. All this time. _All this time._ ’  
  
‘It’s alright, John, it doesn’t have to change anything, Mary knows already and if she can stand me being in love with you, we can just keep going like we used to – ‘ He stops there because of the way John is looking at him. Oh. Oh, _shit._  
  
‘In love?’ John repeats. ‘You are _in love_ with me?’  
  
‘I didn’t mean to say that,’ Sherlock says as calmly as he can, _shit,_ ‘I only meant that I greatly value our friendship and if Mary and you can both come to accept that I admire you in a rather compromising way, perhaps we can just keep going as we used to.’  
  
‘You are in love with me?’ John says, shaking his head just a little. ‘And I didn’t know _that?_ ’  
  
‘Don’t, John,’ Sherlock says, almost begging, he can’t be left to deal with things like that, he’ll only mess it up worse and worse, ‘if we just forgot about it, maybe – ‘  
  
‘But we can’t,’ John says, now leaning forward, ‘don’t you realise? You think you are so clever, but really, Sherlock, you are an idiot too, can’t you see? I can’t let this go. I won’t. I _can’t._ ’  
  
John rises onto his feet, straightening his whole body, clearing his throat. Sherlock just watches him. He’s incapable of doing anything else.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John says with a surprisingly calm voice, ‘in about three seconds I’m going to kiss you. Properly. On your mouth. If you don’t want that to happen, please tell me now.’  
  
Sherlock sits still. It takes more than three seconds for John to walk to him (five and a half, almost exactly).  
  
John leans forward and takes a tight grip on Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him up. He swallows, twice. John is standing in front of him, just a few inches away, _too close_ , Sherlock tries to _shut up_ the voice that’s telling him to step further away from John, because he won’t, he definitely won’t. John looks at him, uncertain, terrified and still determined. John pulls him closer still and he lets him, he would let him do _anything_ at this point, and then John is kissing him.  
  
_Oh._  
  
His mind goes blank.  
  
_Emotions._ A peculiar thing indeed.  
  
Especially peculiar when combined with a slightly rough jaw against your own, firm fingers that are gripping your shirt so tightly you somehow fear it might tear, hips that are pushed against your own (probably unconsciously) and, of course, a warm and wet and demanding mouth on your own, tongue licking your upper lip, teeth taking a nip on your lower, a low voice that’s building somewhere inside you (or him, you wouldn’t know).  
  
‘Sherlock?’  
  
_Oh, yes, John, please.  
  
_ ‘Sherlock?’ John’s voice is more demanding, and, well, perhaps he didn’t answer aloud.  
  
‘John,’ he says with a deep exhale.  
  
‘I’m sorry,’ John says, mouth against his neck, _oh,_ like he can listen to John’s words _at all_ when his tongue is ever so lightly touching the skin of his neck, ‘I’m sorry, everything is so messed up and I’m so _late,_ so fucking late with this, I should have known sooner, _Sherlock,_ I have a _kid_ now, I can’t just… I don’t know what to do, but _really,_ I’m sorry, please let me just…’  
  
‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock says because, somehow, it really is. He can manage. He can live with whatever John chooses to do. If only John would kiss him again, on his mouth, John’s body against his, John’s tongue drawing circles on his lips.  
  
And, fortunately, John does.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write a short fic in which Sherlock knows he likes John but John doesn't know it yet. And I wanted it to be post-TAB. Then I began writing and realised that there is _Mary. Oh, a bit complicated._ And after a while I realised that John and Mary should have their daughter born by now, too. _Oh. A bit more complicated._ And that's how I ended up writing this story.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and of course I'd really appreciate feedback!


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